It’s Always Been Just Me and Malik
I had Malik at 22. His father left before I could even say “pregnant.” For 13 years, it’s been just the two of us—me juggling two jobs, him growing up fast in the chaos.
He’s not a bad kid, but lately, things went downhill—skipping school, fighting. Then the police came. I broke down, crying on the hallway floor.
That night, he sat beside me and said softly, “I’m sorry, Ma. I wanna do better.”
Something shifted after that. He started waking up early, helping around the neighborhood, even brought home food from the discount bin. Said he was saving for my birthday.
Then one morning, a knock. Three men in black suits. Panic hit until one spoke: “I met your son yesterday. He helped me buy groceries when I forgot my wallet. Said, ‘My ma says we don’t walk past people who need us.’”
He handed me a card. “Call me when the time comes. I’d like to pay for his education.”
Malik thought he messed up. I told him, “No, baby. You did everything right.”
Later, I found a note in my coat pocket:“I know I messed up. But I’ll spend the rest of my life trying. I love you. –Malik”
Then the school called—his art was in an exhibit. A mosaic called “In Pieces, Still Whole.” Broken faces mended with gold.
My birthday came. Malik stood with a crooked chocolate cake, wildflowers, and a tiny bag. Inside—moonstone earrings.
“I love them,” I said. “But not as much as I love you.”
And for the first time in years, I felt peace.